


Winterborn Dreams

by AriadneKurosaki



Series: Winterborn [3]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Minor Abarai Renji/Kuchiki Byakuya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:54:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26306656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AriadneKurosaki/pseuds/AriadneKurosaki
Summary: Her body slams into someone much taller and stronger, and Rukia topples backwards, falling to the cobblestone ground with a cry.“Ah. I’m sorry,” a deep voice says, and a hand slides beneath her elbow to help her up. Rukia can feel the warmth of his hand through the fabric of her dark purple kimono, and she straightens up with his help. “I was in a rush and wasn’t looking whe—”Oh.
Relationships: Kuchiki Rukia/Kurosaki Ichigo
Series: Winterborn [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2015176
Comments: 13
Kudos: 98





	Winterborn Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to [I Will Make This Sacrifice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25878076), which I wrote for IchiRuki Month.
> 
> Did anyone ask for this sequel? No.
> 
> Do I have any self-control when it comes to writing about these two? Also no.

Rukia has always been able to remember her dreams.

It isn’t a good thing. She dreams of dusty streets that she has never traveled and rickety shacks she has never slept in. She dreams of ratty yukatas and being so hungry that her stomach begins to digest itself. As she grows older, the dreams shift, and she uses a sword of ice to destroy monsters with bone-white masks and shapes so horrifying that she wakes screaming.

As a teenager in modern-day Tokyo, these dreams are hardly relevant to her life.

“We just want you to talk to someone,” her mother tells her when Rukia has woken up screaming for the tenth night running. “There must be a reason for these…night terrors.”

The dark-haired young woman just shrugs. “If you think it will help,” she says over her third cup of coffee – her vivid nightmares aren’t exactly restful.

The first psychologist she sees works in a hundred-story building of glass and steel that gives Rukia the shakes just looking at it. Still, she rides the elevator to the tenth floor and sits on a beige couch in front of a pleasant-looking, middle-aged woman.

“Can you tell me why you’re here, Chouhashi-san?” the psychologist asks as Rukia shifts uncomfortably.

“I have vivid dreams of things I’ve never seen,” Rukia explains. She haltingly describes the strange place of dirt roads and shacks, and the monsters.

“Do you watch many frightening movies, Chouhashi-san?”

“I don’t watch _any_ frightening movies,” Rukia insists. “I like cute things, and romantic comedies. I study most of the time, anyway.”

The psychologist seems puzzled, but she gives Rukia a set of meditative exercises and when Rukia leaves in a driverless taxi, there is another appointment in her phone.

The meditative exercises don’t help, and neither does the imagery rehearsal that they begin a few weeks later. When the psychologist recommends medication to mitigate her nightmares, Rukia decides not to make another appointment.

She is twenty when she sees the second psychologist. Her dreams have changed again: they feature a man with brilliant orange hair, too gorgeous to be real, with a black uniform and a huge sword. Sometimes her dreams are funny: she bickers with him and they tease one another over terrible drawings of bunnies. Sometimes they are so steamy that Rukia wakes up panting, cheeks flushed and body tingling from phantom hands that find every sensitive spot on her body.

She sees the third psychologist the day after she sees herself die in this man’s arms, covering him in her blood.

“Perhaps you should start dating,” he tells her, and Rukia doesn’t go back.

Time passes; Rukia _does_ go on dates a few times, but there is no one who makes her heart beat faster. The orange-haired man is a permanent fixture in her dreams, and though she cannot love a man she has never met, her dreams become less of a burden when he is in them, fighting by her side. The relief of that burden allows her to graduate from college and pursue a law degree, even though her dreams remain vivid and all too real.

Rukia opens her eyes. The air is warm and a little dry, and it smells – it smells of old wood and fabric, of smoke from cooking meat, of jasmine flowers. There is a wooden roof over her head, and she can hear low voices talking in another room. She pushes herself into a seated position and as a light blanket falls away, she looks down; she is wearing a plain white yukata, like a cheap version of what historical reenactors wear during holidays.

“Ah, you’re awake.” Rukia turns; there is an older woman sitting next to her, wearing a bright blue kimono embroidered with cranes and a white, patterned obi.

“I’m sorry – who are you? Where are we?” Rukia asks. “I…I was somewhere else before.”

The woman smiles gently and pats her hand. “You’re newly arrived in the Rukongai, dear. We’re in the third southern district, it’s nicer than most.”

“But – what is the _Rukongai?_ I was in…” She pauses when the word slips from her mind. “I wasn’t _here_ , yesterday.”

“Well, you weren’t here _two_ days ago. We found you wandering in the streets before you collapsed at my feet,” the older woman acknowledges.

“But how did I get here?” Rukia asks and looks around. The room is small, and the floor is covered in plain tatami mats, but the walls are painted with colorful wildlife imagery. This doesn’t look like…like the city I lived in.”

“This is the Soul Society, miss. I’m sorry to say that you arrived here by dying in the World of the Living.”

Rukia’s mouth drops open. “So this is…heaven?” It doesn’t look anything like what she expected. It looks more like a nicer version of her old dreams. Dreams that suddenly slip and blur as she grasps for memories of them.

But the old woman is patting her hand again. “It’s not _quite_ what you might think of as heaven. But the third district is nice enough.”

Her stomach growls suddenly, and Rukia flushes at the noise.

“ _Oh_.” The woman looks _very_ interested, suddenly. “Are you hungry? That must mean you have reiryoku. Only souls with reiryoku get hungry, here in the Rukongai. Let’s find you something to eat.”

“What’s…reiryoku?” The word is strange in Rukia’s mouth and she stumbles over it.

“Power, dear. But let’s worry about that after you’re fed.”

Rukia stands with only a little trouble, and rolls up the futon, pillow, and blanket she slept on. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Thank you for taking care of me. But – what is your name?”

The woman smiles. “I’m Uchita Anzu. Do you remember having a name of your own? Sometimes people lose their names, on the path between the World of the Living and the Soul Society.”

“Rukia,” she says. “I don’t remember my family name, though.”

“Well, Rukia. Let’s get you settled here in the third district.”

Soul Society isn’t at all what Rukia expected of the afterlife. Uchita takes care of her for nearly a week, but eventually makes it clear that Rukia must either bring in food and money or leave. The third southern district really _isn’t_ that bad, compared with the strange dreams of threadbare yukatas and falling-down shacks, and Rukia is able to find a job at a store in the shopping district.

Time moves forward. She learns that there are other, much poorer districts in the Rukongai and that it is not safe to go to them. She learns about shinigami and the Seireitei, a shining city rebuilt after a war over a century ago that nearly destroyed all of the worlds. She doesn’t think about it much, but sometimes, Rukia feels a tugging in her heart. There is often no direction to it, and so she never pursues it more than a few steps. She doesn’t know what it could mean, and the one time she mentions it to Uchita, the woman is baffled.

Her dreams do not return, but instead the waking world is more like the old dreams. The shinigami in the world wear uniforms that look like the clothes that the orange-haired man wore in her dreams. Sometimes, shinigami come through the districts looking for recruits. Though Rukia eats and drinks like one of them, the first few of these soldiers who come through are rough and crude, and so she takes to avoiding them. None of them look like the orange-haired man, at any rate.

But: “You must learn to control your reiryoku, Rukia,” Uchita tells her. “You are getting stronger, and out-of-control reiryoku attracts trouble. That is why so many shinigami come through the shopping district these days.”

Rukia learns of an elderly man who is skilled in something called Kido, and in teaching others how to use it. Under his tutelage – in exchange for a share of her wages from her job – Rukia learns basic Kido techniques and how to keep reiatsu from leaking around her like water from a sieve.

Before she knows it, Rukia has been in the Rukongai for almost fifty years. Occasionally she catches glimpses of herself in a mirror; she is still _young_ looking, as though she is no more than a twenty-five year old although she must have been an adult when she passed and she has been in Soul Society for so long.

Her job at the shop runs until close to sundown most days, and after so many years Rukia is entrusted with the task of cleaning and locking up the jewelry store for the evening. Her walk back to Uchita’s home takes her through the restaurants in the third district, which every night are filled with both citizens of the Rukongai and shinigami eating and drinking.

Her body slams into someone much taller and stronger, and Rukia topples backwards, falling to the cobblestone ground with a cry.

“Ah. I’m sorry,” a deep voice says, and a hand slides beneath her elbow to help her up. Rukia can feel the warmth of his hand through the fabric of her dark purple kimono, and she straightens up with his help. “I was in a rush and wasn’t looking whe—”

 _Oh._ The man standing before her is tall, much taller than her, and he wears not just the shihakusho of the shinigami but a white captain’s haori. But more importantly – _he is the orange-haired man_. His hair is longer than it was in her dreams; it brushes past his shoulders, while shorter strands hang down his forehead. There are two zanpakutō hilts peeking out from his robes, neither of them the enormous one from her dreams. And there are a few more lines beneath his eyes as well. But it’s _him._ And he is staring at her with amber eyes as wide as if he has seen a ghost.

The tugging in her chest becomes more than a pull – it is a sharp _jerk_ that suddenly flares into being. “Th-thank you,” Rukia manages, as red thread flashes into her view and vanishes just as quickly. “I—”

“ _Rukia_.” The way he says her name is reverent: it’s a prayer on his lips, a whisper for her ears alone.

The sound of his voice when he says it slams into her and with it comes his name. “ _Ichigo_ ,” she whispers back, and though she can’t yet explain why, there are tears suddenly trickling from her eyes. But he isn’t any better: he looks utterly shattered and shellshocked, all color gone from his face. His hand is still on her arm, gripping as if she might run away.

“Get out of the way!” The shout startles them both, and Ichigo pulls her closer, shielding her as he steps out of the path in time for a large hand cart to barrel through, pushed by a brawny man in a dark yukata. “Damned shinigami, thinking they can just block the road,” she hears him curse.

The shinigami – _Ichigo –_ still has an arm around her. “I can’t – I can’t believe it,” he says roughly when the cart has passed them by. “It’s been one hundred and fifty years. How…how long have you been here?”

Rukia bites her lower lip. “I don’t…fully understand what’s happening,” she admits. “You – you were a dream in my head for so long. I’ve been here fifty years and here – here you are.”

Some of the shock leaves his face, replaced by sadness. “So you…don’t remember,” he says cautiously.

Her hand finds his as if it belongs there. “I remember many things,” she says, just as cautiously. “I dreamt of this place when I was in the World of the Living. I don’t know how long I was there, but I remember an orange-haired man, a good man who saved _me_. Who saved this place. I remember…” Rukia’s cheeks flush brightly. “I wasn’t _just_ his friend.”

Ichigo’s eyes turn honeyed amber in the fading light of the sun. “You weren’t,” he acknowledges. His eyes dart to their joined hands. “Will you come with me? I was on my way to meet a friend for a drink. I…think he would like to meet you.”

“None of it was a dream,” Rukia guesses shrewdly. “You lived all of it.”

“I did,” he says. “Please. No tricks – I won’t hurt you.”

She _laughs_ at that, a memory or a dream drifting to the surface. There is an utter _certainty_ there. “I know. You – you would never hurt me, Ichigo.”

He guides her down the cobblestone road to a small _izakaya_ set back from the street. It’s nicer than any she has been into; it’s not shocking that a Shinigami Captain would frequent it. Ichigo steps in before her, but he keeps his hand around hers as if she might run away. “Ah, he’s here already.” Ichigo looks down at her. “I should warn you – he’s going to be…very shocked.”

Shocked is an understatement. Renji’s shout of “ _What the hell?!_ ” shocks the rest of the izakaya into silence.

Ichigo actually looks _shy_ as he rubs the back of his neck and brings her to the cushioned booth that Renji is standing in, eyes wide. His crimson hair and the tattoos on his skin are a shock and his face flashes through her head. She remembers, _Yes, he is the one who attacked me and then worked with Ichigo to save me. We were friends, in the dreams that weren’t dreams_. She remembers hair like a pineapple, but this man’s hair is loose save for a portion held up by a pair of silvery-white kenseikan. He looks less rangy, more _built_ , than the old dreams.

“Ichigo, what the _fuck_?” the tall redhead asks again when they are closer. His voice carries and Ichigo gives him a quelling glare.

“Stop shouting, you’re going to get us kicked out,” he orders.

“But how – she _can’t be_ – _how?!_ ” Words seem to fail the shinigami, whom, Rukia notices, wears not a haori but a badge strapped around his arm.

“I don’t know,” Ichigo admits. “But she is. Rukia – I’m not sure if you remember Renji.”

“I—sort of,” she says softly. “He was in some of the dreams.”

“ _Dreams?_ ”

“Sit _down_ , Renji,” Ichigo orders again, and helps Rukia into the booth. He signals to a passing waiter and orders sake and three cups, as well as snacks.

Renji finally sits down, and glowers at Ichigo even as his eyes dart furtively to Rukia. “Are you _sure_?” he asks finally. “Does Byakuya know?”

“I ran into her five minutes ago, Renji. There hasn’t exactly been time to tell him,” Ichigo explains. “But it’s – it’s really Rukia. Sode no Shirayuki says so, too.” He turns to Rukia. “She was – is – your—”

“My zanpakutō,” Rukia breathes. She remembers the sword again, a beautiful blade of white with a long ribbon. She remembers dancing with it – with her – and sending ice to destroy her enemies. “But how…?”

Ichigo touches the hilt of the sword on his right side. “I’ve been carrying her since…” He swallows hard, suddenly, and his other hand grips the table. “Since…”

She remembers that, before he can bring himself to finish the sentence, and her hand touches his arm. “Are you still blaming yourself for that?” Rukia asks. “Fool. We both knew that something like that could happen. I was a soldier.”

Renji is staring at them. “It really _is_ you,” he manages to whisper. There are tears in the corners of his eyes and he scrubs at them impatiently. “It’s a damn miracle.”

“I don’t – I don’t remember everything,” Rukia cautions, but even as she sits with them more of it comes back: the battle through Hueco Mundo to rescue their friend, the fight with Aizen. The fight with _Yhwach_. “I thought I was going crazy, dreaming of this place,” she says, and glances up at Ichigo shyly.

“I’m sorry,” Ichigo rumbles, and there are tears in _his_ eyes too. It’s such an odd sight, two high-ranking shinigami in tears and a tiny woman from the Rukon that the waiter looks at them strangely when he drops off their sake, a bowl of wasabi peas, and a second bowl of mixed pretzels and crackers.

“It’s—I don’t remember most of my time in the World of the Living,” Rukia admits. “I mostly remember Soul Society.” She looks over at him again and thinks. “You weren’t a member of the Gotei Thirteen when I…died.”

Saying the word aloud sends a visible shock through both of the men with her, and Ichigo stiffens next to her before he says, “No. I joined just afterwards. It felt like something I had to do. I’m Captain of – your former squad. Thirteen.”

Renji is silent, busying himself with pouring sake for all three of them and pushing an overfilled cup toward Ichigo. Rukia’s cup has a more modest pour in it. “What else do you remember, Rukia?” he asks, when silence falls between them.

She frowns thoughtfully. “There were others,” she says slowly. “Humans with spiritual powers. But if I’ve been here fifty years then they…” Rukia takes a deep breath. “Where are they?”

Renji’s smile is soft as he looks at her. “They’re here, some of them. They aren’t shinigami, although Orihime consults with Squad Four on difficult cases. She and Uryuu have a place in the first southern district. Chad runs an orphanage further out.”

“An…an orphanage?”

Ichigo’s grin is quick, there and gone, and he says, “It’s something I started when…when Karin and Yuzu became part of the Soul Society. Chad runs it and Yuzu raises funds for it through the Shinigami Women’s Association.”

Rukia has a flash of a big man with messy curled hair and a small, light-haired girl. “I…I don’t remember them very well, I’m sorry.” She slumps down in the booth as Ichigo’s expression falls. “But what they’re doing sounds wonderful.”

“Karin’s in Squad Ten,” Renji adds.

“And you?” Rukia asks. “That badge still says you’re the Squad Six Lieutenant.”

A sudden flush comes over Renji’s face and Rukia looks at Ichigo questioningly. His grin is back as he says, “Byakuya won’t let him go now, says he won’t have anyone else as his lieutenant. In his emotionally constipated way, of course.”

Rukia’s eyebrow arches as she looks at Renji. “The kenseikan,” she says suddenly. “You’re part of the Kuchiki clan now.” She remembers a dark-haired man with kenseikan in his hair and a stoic expression on his face.

“Yeah, for a while now. We uh – we married about a hundred years ago.” The words are a little hesitant but the expression on Renji’s face is soft, _happy_ , and Rukia finds herself smiling for him.

“I’m glad,” she says softly. There are tears in her eyes again and Rukia wipes them away impatiently.

“It’s a lot all at once,” Ichigo says suddenly, and his hand brushes hers lightly. “We can talk about it more later. Have some sake,” he urges.

They raise their cups and drink, Rukia sipping modestly while Renji and Ichigo take far more generous gulps of the alcohol. It’s better quality sake than she’s had before, she thinks; unlike what Uchita brings out on special occasions it doesn’t burn going down.

Their conversation turns to lighter things; Renji talks about the latest problems in Squad Six and an altercation with Squad Eleven that has Ichigo laughing at the image of Ikkaku – whom Rukia remembers vaguely as a bald man – chasing half of the Sixth’s seated officers around the Seireitei for calling him cue-ball.

Eventually Ichigo orders something more substantial than wasabi peas, and more sake, although Rukia leaves most of that to the two men. Other customers in the _izakaya_ come and go. It’s full dark when Renji finally says, “We should be getting back.” And he looks furtively at Rukia.

“Uchita-san will be expecting me,” she says quietly. At Ichigo’s raised eyebrow, she adds, “She adopted me, sort of, when I arrived. She and her husband found me passed out in the street.”

Ichigo’s eyes meet hers and he says, “You’re hiding most of your reiryoku, aren’t you.”

“Ah…yes. Sometimes the shinigami who patrol here make trouble for anyone with strong reiryoku who isn’t willing to join the Gotei,” Rukia mumbles. Ichigo’s eyes darken and he glances at Renji. Something passes between them silently, but Ichigo just stands and offers his hand to her.

“I’ll walk you back to Uchita-san’s home,” he offers.

Renji parts ways with them at the door. So late in the evening the restaurants have quieted, and their walk back toward Rukia’s home is much calmer than usual. And then Ichigo asks, “Do you want her back?”

She stops dead and turns to look at him beneath the moonlight. “Sode no Shirayuki?” she asks. “Is that even possible?”

Ichigo flashes a quick grin at her. “Probably not for most, but half of what we did back – back then – was supposed to be impossible. I’ve been carrying her for a long time and that’s supposed to be impossible too.” His hand falls to touch the hilt of one zanpakutō. “Zangetsu had the most hope of us all.”

The name is familiar, bringing to mind the big sword from her dreams. “He looks different,” she says somewhat inanely.

“Che. Yeah, when – when we took in Shirayuki, he let me seal him so that I could carry her too. Said he didn’t mind sharing ‘for a while’ as though—” The words seem to choke him and Ichigo looks up toward the sky for a long moment. “As though it was temporary. Guess he knew more than me and Shirayuki.”

Rukia’s eyes meet his again. “And now that I’m here…” _Now that I’m here your obligation to her is done. You can give her back and wave goodbye_. The words don’t pass her lips, but Ichigo scowls down at her.

“I know that face. You think I’m going to hand her over and just walk away,” he accuses.

“Ah—well, it’s been a long time,” she prevaricates. “I thought that, like Renji, you might have married, had a family…”

Ichigo rolls his eyes. His hand finds hers and brings it up, pressing her palm to his heart. “This was always and will always be yours. It’s your choice what do with it,” he tells her.

Her hand flexes beneath his. She can feel the thrumming of his heart beneath her palm, the inhale and exhale of breath as they stand beneath the moon. “I saw it, when our eyes met,” Rukia whispers. “I felt it. The red string of fate, the pull of you to me.”

“I did too. But you’ve lived a life between, you have a life here. It’s _your_ choi—” He stops, stifled by the way her hand fists in his shihakusho to drag him down to her height so that her lips can press to his. His arm comes up around her and pulls her closer.

When they part, Rukia can’t keep the smile from her face and neither can he. “Can we start again?” she asks softly.

“Yeah, we can,” Ichigo says, and before she can say anything else he pulls her into his arms and uses flash-step to bring them to a clearing.

“What…?”

He grins at her. “Do you remember when we first met?” Ichigo asks as he pulls Sode no Shirayuki from his hip. “If you want her back, we have to do this _our_ way.”

The scent of snow fills the air despite the warmth around them. “I remember,” Rukia says. “You’d better give me that sword then, shinigami,” she whispers.

Ichigo’s laugh echoes in the clearing. “It’s Kurosaki Ichigo,” he corrects.

“Kuchiki Rukia.” She doesn’t know if she’s still part of the clan, but the word feels right as she says it.

The blade slides forward. Light and snow explode outward, filling the entire clearing with an enormous burst of reiatsu.

When it clears, Rukia is wearing the black shihakusho of a shinigami and tears are streaming down her cheeks as she holds Sode no Shirayuki in her _shikai_ form. “ _Oh_ ,” she says, as Ichigo wipes tears from her cheeks and smiles down at her. “I missed her.” Her head cocks to the side. “Were you going to tell me that she and Zangetsu are lovers?”

Ichigo’s cheeks flush brightly and he brushes his lips against hers. “Well…zanpakutō are a reflection of the soul.”

**Author's Note:**

> Rukia's last name in the living world, Chouhashi, roughly translates to "butterfly bridge" as a reference to the hell butterflies that guide souls between the worlds.


End file.
